John Watson's War
by ButterfishJellyfly
Summary: John Watson is a sixth-form scholarship boy at Harrow. He's done well making his way among the wealthy boys there, making friends and succeeding academically, and is looking forward to graduating and heading off to medical school. But the new boy, who he is called upon to help settle in, is about turn his well-planned life upside down. AU, Teen!Lock
1. Chapter 1

John Watson's War

Chapter One: The Good Shepherd

Saturday morning and John Watson clattered down the stairs of The Grove house, calling as he went, "Harcourt, White - get up boys, let's get breakfast and go out! It's a gorgeous day!"

"Get up?" James Harcourt, a slender, blond young man in Harrow-grey trousers and a blue jumper, stood at the foot of the stairs with his tea, grinning at the shorter boy barreling down towards him. "I've been up for an hour, Watson - maybe you have the time to take a little day-holiday, but that doesn't mean we all do. I've got more reading than could possibly be decent this early in term. Sixth form is going to be a right holy terror, I can already tell." John pulled up next to him, and Harcourt gave in to the temptation to ruffle his hair - the smaller boy always reminded him of a small, eager puppy, even as they both approached eighteen. "Don't you have work to do?"

John took the mug of tea out of his friend's hand and swallowed its contents quickly, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. "It can wait - come on, Harcourt, how many more free days are we going to have for the rest of our lives?"

"My tea! Bastard!"

"Too slow - you know how I am about my morning tea. But good God, man -what kind of girl are you, taking it with that much sugar?"

"Oh, Harcourt likes everything sweet." John looked up just in time to catch White's straw hat, coming at him fast from the top of the stairs. "Especially that girl Mary, from the cafe in town. Work? He's planning some skirt chasing and can't take the charming Mr. Watson with him, messing up his chances."

Harcourt snatched the hat from John, and sent it flying at the boy coming down the stairs, who caught it neatly.

William White arrived in The Grove front hall with a mischievous look in brown eyes set deeply under heavy brows. He was short, but stocky, easily outweighing both the other boys. "But I _do_ have work, and must have breakfast. And tea, since you, Watson, seem to have drunk all the available tea in the room."

The three made their way out of the cavernous front hallway of The Grove, watched over by dark portraits of Headmasters past and lit only by the sunlight pouring through the front windows, and into the equally cavernous dining hall, already full of boys of various sizes and shapes in their blue jumpers, carrying armloads of books. "Good Christ," John said, looking over the crowd. "The first formers get smaller every year, don't they?"

"Ha! Half of them are taller than you, Watson - you were the smallest first former I've ever seen, and you haven't grown that much." White led them through the press to the sixth formers' table, which they were still getting used to.

"You're hardly taller than me," John said as he sat down.

"Yes, but I'm _bigger_." White tucked his napkin into his collar and picked up his fork. "God, I'm starving."

John reached for the teapot and poured himself a cup, added a bit of milk and brought it to his lips. "That fact is undeniable - _both_ facts are undeniable - you are bigger than me, and always starving."

"My mum says I'm a growing boy," White commented, taking several rashers of bacon off the serving plate.

"Growing sideways, anyway." Harcourt sat down next to John, snatched up a piece of toast, then poured more tea into his empty mug. "And _yes_, I am going into town - _briefly _- to see Mary, but I still do have a lot of reading and I am not going to get behind this early."

"Oh, to hell with you both," John slurped down more tea. "I'm going for a walk and to hell with getting behind. This is _it_, boys. After this, all work and no play and we will certainly be dull."

"Fine talk for the man who has already been accepted into pre-med. The rest of us must blunder through as best we can in your academic shadow," Harcourt commented, his mouth full of toast. "I think that at least would keep you working on your sciences and maths today, Watson. I'll go into town, you go for your little stroll, and I'll meet you later in your room to study. Or out on the grass, if you insist on being outside."

"Actually," said a voice behind them, a woman's voice, "He'll be doing neither."

The boys turned to find Mrs. Hudson, their Matron, standing behind them with her hands on her hips. "I'll be needing Mr. Watson's help today - there's a new boy transferring into your form and Headmaster has asked specifically for Mr. Watson as his Shepherd." She put her hand on the boy's blond head. "You are just so good at it, John, making the new boys comfortable, you can't blame him."

John slipped sideways a bit 'til Mrs. Hudson's hand rested on his cheek. "But Maaaatroooon...I wanted to get outside today." He pouted cheerfully. He adored Mrs. Hudson - she had been the one who helped him settle in as the scholarship boy of his form, helped him learn that all the boys weren't rich prats bent on taking him down a peg. "Just be yourself, John," she had said that long ago night at the beginning of his first year as he knelt in front of her in her rocking chair, weeping with his head on her lap. "Be yourself and you'll find the people who appreciate who you are."

She had been right, of course, though there had been some run-ins with prats and bullies before Harcourt and White came along with their much more down-to-earth ways, and much more accepting friends. They didn't care that he didn't have designer clothes or the nicest computer, that he couldn't go on ski vacations with them, or that his school uniforms were second hand - though they did like to rib him that they were a bit oversized.

As he moved up in school, he gained the respect of many of his classmates, not only for being good at academics and brilliant at rugby, but also for being kind. He was always going out of his way, especially for the younger students, to make sure people were comfortable and happy at The Grove, and at Harrow. He was well-liked by his teachers, but no-one considered him a suck-up or a pet. Just a decent young man with a good head on his shoulders and a solid moral base. And for that reason, he was often called upon to Shepherd - to help new students find their feet.

Mrs. Hudson smiled down at him. "You're a good boy, John Watson. The new boy will be moving into the room across the hall from you, and we are counting on you to take good care of him. He's rather…" she paused, "challenging. Very, very bright, from a good old family, but I think he's a bit...lost...right now. Headmaster and I think you'll do him a lot of good."

"Anything for you, of course, Mrs. Hudson." John grabbed her hand and planted a saucy kiss on it. "When does he arrive?"

"Oh, I think he's already up there, actually, you naughty thing." Mrs. Hudson smacked John's head, lightly. "When you've finished your tea, you should go up and say hello, see if he has everything he needs, perhaps take him on that walk you wanted to have, around the grounds, or in town."

John poured himself more tea, and looked around for a second cup. "I'll bring him some tea, then. That's always a good way to break the ice."

"That's fine," said Mrs. Hudson, "but remember to bring your cups back down - I'm tired of finding empty ones scattered all over your room!"

"Yes, Matron." John stood with the two cups in hand. "Harcourt, White, do you want to come up with me?"

"No, not now," Harcourt wiped his hands and stood up as well. "I'm off to town."

"And I'm off to the library," White pushed back from the table, his lap covered in crumbs. "Lots to do. But we'll see you later, then, John?"

"Well, certainly by dinner," John stepped away, but Harcourt stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"And we still have plans to study later, yes?" the taller boy asked.

"Indeed - must get to those sciences and maths - doctors have to know all that. Let's get together after dinner in my room, and you can meet the new boy."

Harcourt frowned. "I suppose. I hate when you have to Shepherd - I feel like I never see you."

"Oh, don't be a baby. It's just for a bit, til he's sorted, then everything back to normal. I'll see you tonight. Oh, Mrs. Hudson - what's his name? That might be helpful."

"Of course," Mrs. Hudson smiled. "That _would_ be helpful. Sherlock, dear. His name is Sherlock Holmes."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Reluctant Sheep

John balanced his cups carefully up two flights of stairs, pausing periodically to look out the tall windows pouring sunshine all over the curving steps, the bannister, and down into the front hall. He really didn't mind Shepherding - he liked making people feel at home, and with his steady and cheerful disposition people were usually comforted by his presence. Sometimes it didn't work out - rich snobs and family-conscious prats looked down their noses at him like there was no way he could possibly be capable of _helping them_. More often than not, though, they came around - a lifetime of servants taking care of their every need made prep school a bit of a culture shock. "Pick up my own laundry? Walk to class? Eat breakfast in a hall full of whiffy, pushy boys?" Yes, John would tell them - it's important. It builds character and makes it easier to meet other students and form the friendships that would carry them through six years, and probably beyond.

That's how he met Harcourt. One morning John came to breakfast with a black eye after taking an elbow to the face in the previous afternoon's rugby match with The Master's Hall, about three weeks after start of term. He was sitting alone in the corner of the dining hall with a book when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking up he found himself falling into brilliant blue eyes - well, _one_ brilliant blue eye - Harcourt's fine blond hair was forever falling down over his left eye. Even in that first moment, John felt a strong urge to push it back, to be able to see into both eyes - later, it became a habit of his to reach up and tuck that long, ill-behaved lock behind Harcourt's finely formed left ear and threaten him with Alice bands to keep it back.

"You were brilliant last night," the blond boy said to him, with a smile, then both boys suddenly noticed the swivel of a number of heads in their direction. "...Oh, at _rugby._" The heads swiveled back. "And that's a gorgeous shiner you've got there. Does it hurt?"

John stared for a moment, slightly stunned. He hadn't heard that many words in his direction from another student - certainly not that many _polite_ ones-since he arrived.

"Hello?" A hand waved in front of John's face. "Did you take more than one to the head last night? Feeling alright?"

John shook himself. "Oh, no - I mean, yes - I mean - _thanks_. About the rugby, not the shiner. I didn't feel brilliant at all. Rogers got me with an elbow right across my nose - I'm glad it's just a black eye."

"Well," the boy said. "_I_ think youwere." He held out his hand. "Harcourt."

"Watson," John said, reaching up to shake.

"I know," Harcourt smiled, and it seemed to John like the sun was breaking through the clouds.

"Sit?" John slid over.

"Only if there's more tea in that pot."

And that was that. Six years later, Harcourt and Watson were still inseparable. They had other friends - White, Edwards, Reynolds-mostly Harcourt's friends who had been happy to fold John into their group. But it was Watson and Harcourt, Harcourt and Watson - if they weren't together, they each knew where the other was-and it was never far.

Sometimes the youngest boys would cry - first time away from home and John had to admit the upper level classes delighted in making life difficult for the first-formers. John would let them cry in his lap as he sat on their low beds, pat their heads and tell them just what Mrs, Hudson had told him: "Don't worry so much. Just be yourself, and you will find people who are like you, or at least who _will _ like you. Trust me."

At the top of the second flight, John took a moment to negotiate both teacups into one hand so he could knock on the door right across from his on the third floor. He loved living on the top floor - Harcourt was right below him, only one flight away-close, but not too close to be distracting when John needed to get some work done. And he had a lot of work, no matter what he said about being able to take a free Saturday to wander the woods behind the house. He'd be heading to St. Barts the following year and he was hoping to be _more_ than ready. He had acquired a number of textbooks through Harcourt's father, who was a doctor and very kind to the boy his son was so attached to, more than willing to help him get off on the right foot. So the third floor was ideal-quiet, private and far away from the ruckus on the first floor, as well as being far enough away from the door leading outside to keep John in when he needed to be in. Mostly.

John paused for a moment, listening for the sounds of someone on the other side of the door, but heard nothing. It was odd that the door was closed at all - mostly the boys left their doors ajar when they were in their rooms, unless, of course, exams were hovering (though some boys, Harcourt among them, were even more likely in that situation to leave their doors ajar, hoping for interruption).

He raised his hand to knock.

And the door opened.

"Are you coming in, or do you plan to stand out in the hall all morning? Is that tea for me?" Before John could even see who was speaking, one cup had been lifted from his hand and the boy had turned back into his room. He stood on the threshold, abashed. What had just happened?

The boy turned back to him, and John was faced with a tall, slim young man, all white skin and dark curly hair in his white shirt and Harrow grays. "Coming in? Or are you just the tea delivery service? Am I supposed to tip you?"

John shook his head, trying to find his rhythm - this was not how initial meetings with his "sheep" usually went. He cleared his throat. "Hello, I'm Watson - I'll be your Shepherd for the next week or so, just while you get adjusted -"

"_Oh God_," the boy said. "They actually do that here? It isn't like I've never been to boarding school before - in my whole life I've spent more time at school than at home for God's sake. I hardly need a babysitter. I appreciate the thought, but I'm sure I'll be fine. Please don't trouble yourself and thank you for the tea. Good day." He stepped toward the shorter boy, cup in hand, as if to escort him out of the room.

"Wait, wait, wait…" John held up his own cup, attempting to regain control of the situation. He felt disconcerted, like someone had kicked the feet out from under him - it had been awhile since anyone had treated him so dismissively. "Why don't we sit and drink our tea and at least have a bit of a chat? I live across the hall from you, we might as well get to know each other, don't you think? You _are_ Sherlock Holmes, aren't you? Mrs. Hudson - the Matron - sent me up to say hello and to see if you needed anything."

The boy sat on his bed, as if defeated by John's persistence in the face of his rudeness. "All right," he said. "Let's have tea, Watson. Seems like a Harrow kind of thing to do. I'm a bit busy right now, but can spare a few minutes for the civilities. And yes," he looked up at John where he still stood half in and half out of the door. "i am Sherlock Holmes."

His eyes, John saw, were an incredible blue.

Not like Harcourt's, whose wide eyes were like an aquamarine sea - but like that same sea, frozen, icy blue, almost gray. Those eyes looked at him as though they could see, not only through his clothes, but through his skin and maybe right into his heart. It was uncomfortable. He shifted, again feeling unsteady on his feet, and had the disturbing feeling that all his interactions with this odd young man might well result in that unsteadiness.

Which, he might have thought, if he had paused to actually think, might not be such a bad thing. Or might be a very bad thing indeed.

He smiled. "All right, then. Tea." He stepped into the room and looked around - it was already cluttered, though Sherlock had been in it for only a day. Papers and files lay everywhere, on every available surface - the desk, the bed, the bedside table, the floor. And where there weren't papers, there were books - the desk chair, like a small mobile library, was pulled up next to the bed. More books were stacked on the bedside table, the bed itself, and on the floor beside it.

On the walls Sherlock had hung a periodic table of the elements and a large, cartoonish painting of a skull, right above his bed. Clothes were nowhere in evidence, not even a Harrow jacket hung on the back of the desk chair, or a sweater tossed across the narrow bed-apparently the young man was more meticulous with them than with his various ephemera. "Goodness, you've made yourself comfortable. Where's your easy chair? Wasn't there one here when you moved in? I can talk to Mrs. Hudson - they are bully comfortable, excellent for naps -"

"I don't take naps and I don't need an easy chair. I chucked it."

"You _chucked _it?"

"Well, I had to break it up first. It wouldn't fit out the window whole." Sherlock sipped his tea, clearly unperturbed by John's confusion. "I don't plan on having company, and it was taking up room I needed for my science equipment." He gestured to several unopened cardboard boxes sitting in the corner normally occupied by one of Harrow's legendarily comfortable easy chairs. John spent many a happy hour in his, reading and drowsing.

"But _out the window_? What possibly possessed you to do that?" John crossed the room to the open window by the head of the bed, and, sticking his head out, found that Sherlock was not having him on, but had actually broken up his chair and tossed it into the shrubbery at the base of the wall. He pulled his head back in, looking curiously at Sherlock, who stood nonchalantly drinking his tea and watching John. "Did you ever think you might _ask_ someone what to do with your chair if you didn't want it?"

"Well,"' the dark haired boy said, "If you had stopped earlier, I might have done. But as it was, there was no one to ask, so it seemed the most efficient course of action. I have to start attending _class_ tomorrow, so I wanted to get my equipment set up before I was required to do anything else." He sat back down on the bed and crossed his long legs. "Which was what I was planning on doing before you arrived with your offer of _Shepherding_, and what I will be doing once you realize Shepherding me is completely unnecessary. As is befriending me. Or attempting to do so - but I assume you'll stop trying once you get to know me a bit better. Most people do."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Two: Mohammed and the Mountain

John considered turning around and walking out. He considered crossing the hall, back to his own room with its easy chair and nice view of the back garden, getting his walking shoes on and heading out into the sunshine, as had been the original plan before Mrs. Hudson had caught him in the dining hall. He had had enough of difficult people over the past six years to last a lifetime, but was a sensible enough young man to know that there would be difficult people to deal with for the rest of his life - still, why _choose_ to bring one into his life, one so clearly determined not to be brought?

He didn't, though. Walk out. Instead he stood there drinking his cooling tea, and looking at the boy sitting on the edge of the bed. Difficult, yes. Sherlock certainly was going to be difficult. But as John looked longer he thought he saw just, perhaps, the tiniest hint of vulnerability - maybe in the way Sherlock kept his eyes on his tea, or the way his top leg bounced, or in the chaotic mess of books and papers on the floor. Then again, maybe he was wrong. Maybe Sherlock was simply another tedious boor. John was a good judge of character - that's what his father always said. And there was something in this boy that _didn't _say "I want to be left alone." In fact, just the opposite.

John leaned on the door frame. "Your concern is heartwarming, truly, but I like to make my own decisions as far as my friends. I'd appreciate it if you'd allow me, maybe, to judge for myself. I'm sure it won't take me long to figure it out, if you are a complete dick. And if it matters to me, if you are. Some of my best friends are complete dicks." He sipped his tea. "Now, maybe we can finish our tea in my room. My easy chair is calling out to me at the moment, and if you insist on not being comfortable, you are welcome to stand or take the desk chair - those are terrible by the way. Designed by some sadist to never let a man relax. Helps keep you awake during exams, but that's about it. Mostly it drives me to my easy chair or outside. Do you like to walk? I'm pretty fond of it, myself. There's a nice little wood behind Grove House."

The leg stopped bouncing as John continued on.

"Shepherding? Don't want it? Fine. But it does make it a bit easier in a new place if you at least know _someone - _maybe especially if you are determined to be an insufferable git. Though God knows there are enough insufferable gits at Harrow - I'm sure you could find a few to walk with you to class or sit in the dining hall with you, if that's your thing. Or I can introduce you to Mrs. Hudson. She's got the patience of a saint for insufferable gits, but certainly won't try to be your friend - "

Something unintelligible came from the boy on the bed.

John paused. "Did you say something?"

Sherlock looked up at him, and smiled….

...and John's world exploded into light. He had seen boys smile, hundreds of boys every day. God knew, Harcourt's sunlight smile had been known to almost stop his heart, when he was willing to admit it. But Sherlock's smile was like the full moon coming up over the horizon on a clear winter night, when the ground was covered with fresh snow. Bathed in bright, crystal light-everything around him thrown into sharp, brilliant relief. For one moment, he forgot how to breathe. "Damn," he thought. "Just, _damn_."

But what he said was, when his breath came back, "What are _you_ smiling about?"

"I think," Sherlock said. "I might like you. And that's something. I don't like people, much. Shall we go to your room and finish our cold tea?" He stood, cup in hand, and stepped toward John, still leaning on the doorframe, though now for balance more than studied nonchalance. "Lead the way?"

"Of course." John found his balance under the close scrutiny of those icy eyes and crossed the hallway, Sherlock close behind him.

"It's not much," he said, as he opened the door, "but it's home."

John's room was as neat as Sherlock's was cluttered. His books from the past five years were shelved carefully by year and subject in a blue-painted wooden bookshelf. The books for this year, as well as the medical books given him by Harcourt's father, were arranged along the back of his desk, the front occupied by his closed laptop. His bed was made, with a handmade quilt in shades of blue and green folded and set across the foot, and a few pictures of his family were set on his bedside table along with his cell phone, which he almost never carried, much to Harcourt's chagrin. All his clothes were hung neatly in his closet except for his Harrow jacket, which was settled on the back of his misery-inducing desk chair. His walking shoes and his one pair of dress shoes, for Sundays, were lined up under the bed. The only things out of place were one book, something on anatomy, face down on the arm of his easy chair, and two empty teacups on the desk.

Sherlock followed John through the door, taking everything in, it seemed to John, in a single glance. "Ah," the pale young man said, settling on the bed. "_You're_ the scholarship boy. Probably why I don't find you annoying. My social class is full of, as you so eloquently put it, _insufferable gits_. You aren't nearly as insufferable. Working class family - oh, maybe military, sorry. First one to a top prep school, then?" He stood and walked over to the desk, running his hand over John's books. "And off to St. Bart's in the fall. Your father and brother must be proud. I'm sorry about your mother. I lost mine, too, when I was younger. But I didn't much miss her. I can see you miss yours."

John stood stock still in the middle of the room. "I'm sorry?" he said, "What are you - how do you - ?"

Sherlock set his cup down on the desk to keep the other two cups company. "Three year old laptop. Two year old cell phone. Books for first year students at St. Barts - at one point my father wanted me to be a doctor, but I just don't have the bedside manner." He looked at John and smiled again, taking the shorter boy's breath away. "Books all saved, organized, all your things put away - you can't replace them easily so you take care of what you have. Boys of my - " he paused " - social class have a tendency to let things go. We'll have the new technological toys when they come out, our parents will replace anything lost or damaged. And your trousers are a bit big - likely second-hand." John ran a hand down the leg of his pants self-consciously. Since he was so short, it was hard to find second-hand Harrow uniforms in his size. His father was a dab hand with the sewing machine, but a close look showed his trousers were deeply hemmed.

"Then," Sherlock sat back down on the bed, patting it with his hand, "this is made military style, and you stand like a military man, shoulders back, head up-you either were terrorized by your father, or you idolized him. I think the latter, you don't show anything when I mention him-no tension. And your photos. Recent ones with your father and brother, but the only one with your mother is old. Maybe ten years ago? I'm bad with children's ages. I'm sorry," he said again. "You look happy with her."

The photo was of John and his mother at the seaside, making a sandcastle, and he _was_ happy that day, brown as a bean with his shorts full of sand, his blonde mother smiling at him, already sick, but he didn't know it then. Ten years ago, yes.

He sat down in his easy chair, heavily. "My sister. Not brother."

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock picked up the photo of John and his _sister_ and father. "Ah, yes. Sorry. She looks rather - boyish."

"She is."

There was a long silence where Sherlock looked at the photo in his hands, and John looked at Sherlock.

John broke it.

"That...was amazing."

Sherlock looked up, his blue-grey eyes wide. "Really? You think so?"

"I do."

"That's not what people normally say."

John leaned forward a bit in his chair. "Really? What do they normally say?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Piss off."

After a moment, both boys began to laugh, Sherlock leaning back on both his elbows on the bed, his head thrown back, black curls shaking. Watching Sherlock laugh almost made John stop laughing. So closed one moment, but suddenly that pale face was wide open and shining. It was brilliant. So brilliant that he needed very much to keep laughing, if only that would keep the boy on his bed laughing, too.

Finally, breathless, Sherlock gasped out, "Enough! It wasn't that funny."

"But it was. You are a funny man, Holmes. Funny in a lot of ways."

"Oh, God, don't do that prep-school thing of calling me by my last name. I loathe that. The last thing I need to be reminded of is my damned family. Call me Sherlock. Just Sherlock, all right?" He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"All right - Sherlock. You might as well call me John, then." John wiped his teary eyes with the back of his hand, then set his cup on the desk with the others, pretending to forget Mrs. Hudson's request to _not_ to collect cups in his room. "Why don't you kick my walking shoes over to me and we'll go out for a bit? We can just go into town. I'll show you the coffee shop where all the pretty girls work, all right?"

Sherlock reached under the bed and picked up the scruffier of the two pairs of shoes. By the time he sat up, his face had closed up again, his smile gone. "I still have to set up my equipment…"

"Oh, to hell with your equipment. I'll help you set it up tonight, all right?"

There was a pause.

"No," Sherlock said. "I really can't. But thanks for the tea." He stood, quickly. "I have work to do." And he was gone, across the hall, his door closed sharply behind him.

He had taken John's walking shoes, and all the light, away with him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Descensus in cuniculi cavum**

At 11:35 p.m., the following Thursday, Harcourt lay sprawled across John's bed, looking more ready for sleep than studying, in John's opinion, wearing his favorite flannel pajama pants and a grey t-shirt that might have once been blue. His Latin textbook, large and heavy though it was, rested on his face.

John had chosen the less comfortable but more productive option of sitting at his desk in the Chair of Pain. The blank notebook page in front of him was rapidly filling with his neat handwriting, taking notes on anatomy. He rubbed his eyes and checked to see if there was any tea in any of the cups scattered across his desk. No such luck. He sighed, and turned to find Harcourt in repose.

"Not going to get much out of the text that way, you know. It's been proven that learning by osmosis doesn't work." He stood and walked over to the bed, lifting the book from Harcourt's face and smiling down at him. Harcourt blinked sleepily.

"Did you say something?" He reached toward the book in John's hand. "I'm not done yet, I still have twenty pages to go."

John dropped it on his chest and Harcourt grunted. "Ow."

"I'm going to get some tea - do you want any?"

"Access to the dining hall after hours, aren't we special?"

"The deal I made with last year probably still holds, don't you think? As long as I'm quiet so she can pretend she doesn't hear me, and make sure it's all cleaned up after. And I need to bring my cups down." John surveyed the array of cups on his desk. "I should probably do that."

Harcourt sat up and opened his textbook.

"Quid ego Latinis studebat?" he groaned.

"Quis vos es an ineptus." John answered, beginning to collect the dozen or so cups into two precarious stacks. "Want to help me with these, do you think? At least two are yours."

"Two of twelve? Hardly. You can do it yourself - it isn't like you aren't back and forth to the dining hall three times a day - you could bring them back before it gets to this point, young man." Harcourt tried to look stern, but failed, his one visible blue eye shining. "How long has it been?"

"Oh, maybe a week…" John added one more cup to his second stack and stood back to look at his handiwork, thinking that one of the cups, actually, was Sherlock's from the tea they shared the previous Saturday, Sherlock's first day at Harrow, his first day as John's sheep. The last day John had spoken to him, in fact.

* * *

The week between their tea and this moment, here with Harcourt, everything seeming so normal, had gone by quickly. Classes and studying, rugby and meals in the dining hall, and late night tea over books and conversation. Stacks of accumulated cups. Moments passed. Normally.

John had tried knocking on Sherlock's always-closed door a few times over the week, just to check up on him, to see if he was settling in alright, but had gotten no answer. Standing in the hall, silent, he'd strain his ears to hear if the pale boy was there at all and sometimes thought he could hear the rustling of papers, the clinking of a spoon in a teacup, footsteps moving across the floor. He half-hoped Sherlock might pull the door open in answer to his silence, like he did that first day when John stood in the hall juggling his cups of tea, with no idea what awaited him.

The first morning after they met, John saw Sherlock in the dining hall, making his way across the room, half a head taller than everyone else, carrying a cup of tea and somehow weaving his way through the crowd with his nose buried in a book. He settled in a relatively quiet corner, speaking to no one. Nothing about his posture or attitude invited interruption, so John left him alone. But John watched him, Sherlock. He couldn't not.

That smile, that laugh. And those eyes.

John had gone to Mrs. Hudson immediately after their first meeting to tell her that Sherlock had refused his offer to Shepherd. She didn't seem surprised. "Well," she said, "it isn't like boarding school is something _new_ for the poor child. But I was hoping he might take to you. Don't worry yourself overmuch, John. But, if you think of it, perhaps you could just keep half an eye, for me?"

John said he would, and left Mrs. Hudson standing in the dining hall with a pensive look on her face. _Poor child?_

* * *

Harcourt had asked about Sherlock only once. It was that same evening. "So," Harcourt had said, bouncing down onto John's bed with a stack of books and a determined air. "How's your new sheep? How many days am I going to have to go without your company while you tend your fragile new charge?" His voice was light, but John felt the concern behind it. Harcourt had never been very good at sharing John - at least with his sheep. Just being with their group of friends was fine, but Harcourt tended to get a bit, John supposed you could call it jealous, when John had to spend time with _new_ boys, outside Harcourt's immediate purview.

John smiled at the boy on his bed, stepping close to shove that unruly lock of hair back, so he could see into both Harcourt's eyes. "None at all, as it turns out," he said. "He's an old hand at boarding, apparently, and feels like he'll be fine on his own. Mrs. Hudson said I could let it slide, since it isn't like he's some spoiled shell too big for his britches. I'm just to check in on him once in awhile, see how he's getting on."

Harcourt grinned and pushed his head against John's hand, where it still held that lock of hair. "Excellent. Good to hear. I get so put out without you, no one can bear me."

"So I've heard," John said, smiling back. "Perhaps we should get to work."

* * *

And now it was five days later, and barring glimpses in the dining hall and out on campus (John was relieved to see Sherlock looked as silly as everyone else in his Harrow straw hat - it would have been unbearable if he hadn't) there had been no contact between them. It was so confusing, and frustrating. What had he done to make Sherlock shutter himself up like that when things had been going along so swimmingly? He replayed the conversation, over and over, but found nothing that made sense. Sherlock had been shining, and then he was gone. And John kept hearing that laugh, in his head, it seemed to be the sound that woke him in the morning, the last thing he heard before he want to sleep at night.

And he very much wanted to talk to someone about it. But there wasn't anyone. He wanted to tell someone about this boy, this boy he met, who was so incredibly brilliant and difficult and somehow charming. He wanted to tell someone about that smile, that laugh. He wanted to work it through with someone, figure out why Sherlock Holmes suddenly occupied such a huge space in his thoughts when they had only spent about fifteen minutes together.

He _certainly_ couldn't talk to Harcourt about it. That would be a _very not good thing_. Harcourt had mentioned Sherlock one time in the past week, after the initial question about how much of John's time the new boy would be taking up. "_God!_" He had charged into John's room Tuesday evening after dinner. Harcourt had been at a meeting of the Classical Language Club, a membership which even John had a difficult time understanding since Harcourt so loathed studying Latin. Still, he was better at it than anyone John knew, actually able to speak the dead language almost as easily as he could speak English - at least as far as John could tell with his own mediocre grasp. _"What a bloody pain in the ass!_" The slim blond boy flung himself dramatically on John's bed.

John looked up from his own Latin studies and sighed. He knew he wouldn't get any more work done until Harcourt had told his tale of woe. "What is it, then?" He closed his book.

"Bloody _Holmes_. He's such a - God, I don't know if there's even a word in English - _odbilis misera bastardus - _" Harcourt flopped back onto the bed and covered his eyes with his hands. "Speaks Latin like an Ancient Roman. And ancient Greek, like he was born to it. And _Hebrew_. _Who speaks Hebrew?"_

Ah.

"So we've got some competition, finally, do we?" John got up and went to sit next to the boy on the bed. "For God's sake, Harcourt. Don't be such a prat. It's just Latin." He smiled. "And Greek. And Hebrew…" He tugged at Harcourt's hands until he could see the other boy's face. Harcourt's great secret, hidden beneath an irresponsible and, well, slightly air-headed facade, was that he was brilliant. He slacked on studying for exams because he _could_. He complained about having to do homework because he was _bored_. But he was also incredibly competitive and worked to stay at the top not only of his classes, but the school as well. "Some people are just good at languages, you know." John resisted the urge to push the hair out of Harcourt's face, but still smiled fondly down at him.

Harcourt reached his hand up to cover John's smile. "Stop looking at me like that, you prat. People will talk."

"No one can see," John said, behind the hand. "And you're being so ridiculous. I can't help it."

"To hell with you, then," Harcourt flipped on his side, his back to John. "That bastard is in _all_ my classes_. _And he's good at _everything_. It's maddening. And he's so damn smug about it - he was correcting the beak in Chemistry lab yesterday and he was _right_." He flipped back over. "I'm going to have to _work_ to keep up, Watson. I _hate_ that."

John gave in to the urge, and pushed his hand into Harcourt's hair, looking into both his bright blue eyes. "I know you do, you idiot. It'll be good for you, though. You got lazy in the last year with no one to battle it out with."

"Well, I've got _you_. Your exams are as good as mine."

"Only because I work hard - it's a lot easier for you. Maybe he just works hard."

"No," Harcourt's eyes turned inward for a moment. "No, I don't think so. I think he's just bloody brilliant and it pisses me off." He looked back up at John. "I am a prat, aren't I?"

"You are," but said with affection. "Now either go get your books so you can pretend to study along with me, or else go find someone else to terrorize. _I've_ got to study my Latin." John stood and crossed the room to his easy chair, and picked his book up off the seat. "Get on with you then."

Harcourt smiled. "I'll get my books," and rose, heading for the door. Then he turned.

"You always make me feel better, Watson. Don't know what I would do without you." Then he was gone.

* * *

John picked up the two towers of teacups, found the balance that might maybe keep them upright and unbroken for the trip down the stairs and into the kitchen. "Fine, then, I'll do it myself, you lazy bastard. Do you want me to bring you a cup?"

Harcourt had flopped over onto his stomach, his book now in the proper orientation for reading on John's pillow. He didn't look up. "Yes, please, that would be lovely."

"All right then, I won't be long," and he stepped through the open door and into the hall, pausing for the merest moment before the door across from his. John could see light coming through the crack at the bottom. He considered knocking, but then realized he had no hands to do so. And Harcourt was waiting for him. He shrugged to himself and continued down the hall, then the stairs - very carefully.

John successfully reached the dark front hall and moved toward the doors to the dining hall, passing through the bright cold squares of moonlight coming through the windows, patching the floor. He loved wandering through Grove House at night, when it was so silent and still, so different from the raucous daytime house. He paused in the middle of the floor, looking out through the tall windows at the trees casting long dark shadows across the moonlit lawn. So quiet. He loved his house, and Harrow, and at moments like these was so immensely grateful for the scholarship that put him here, among these boys, giving him the opportunity for the education his father never had. It was hard to imagine in just a few short months - less than a year - he would be leaving forever, off to study medicine in London. Without Harcourt. That would certainly be very, very strange. It was _impossible _to imagine life without him. Without that bright, cheerful smile, without those aquamarine eyes, without the color and energy he brought to John's life.

John turned away from the view and continued into the dining hall, passing through like a shadow, navigating between the tables and chairs partly with the moonlight, partly from memory. The cups shifted and clinked in their piles, but remained stable enough until he reached the kitchen door and went to set one pile on the table so he could open it. As he put it on the table, the cups started to slip sideways - not such a terrible thing, a few broken cups, but John didn't want to make any nose that might disturb Mrs. Hudson in her room directly above. It all seemed to be happening in slow motion, the pile tilting precariously left while John tried to bring his hand back to steady it without the cups in the other hand tipping as well. He wasn't going to make it -

But then a third hand came out of the shadows, and the impending disaster was brought to a halt.

Time sped back up.

"Perhaps you should carry fewer cups next time. You just have to look at them to see they aren't meant to be stacked like that," Sherlock said, stepping out of the dark.


	5. Chapter 5

I Have Measured Out My Life in Coffee Spoons

It was only because John had the use of both his hands that the other tower of teacups didn't crash to the floor. "Jesus, Sherlock," he sputtered in a whisper. "You startled me! What are you thinking, just appearing out of nowhere like that?"

"Well, I saved the cups, didn't I?" Sherlock carefully dismantled the collapsing pile on the table and divided it into two more stable piles. "I'll take these, if you like. We should be able to get them all to the kitchen without further issue, do you think?" He didn't look up from the cups as he spoke, focusing on the actions of his hands as if they were all there was in the world, as if John weren't there staring at him like he was some house ghost in a blue dressing gown.

"Yes," John shook himself a bit. "Yes, thank you." He didn't dare do anything but be very polite. He didn't want to ask the questions crowding his mouth: "Where have you been? What did I say? What have you been doing? Why did you leave?" He didn't even want to ask the simplest, most obvious question, "What are you doing wandering around in the middle of the night?" afraid that that one would simply lead to all the others and he'd feel like a complete ass. It seemed silly and stupid to demand explanations from a boy he spent fifteen minutes with a week earlier, a boy he didn't even know. Instead he turned and pushed through the door from the dining hall to the kitchen.

John loved the kitchen - the old stone floor and walls, the great wooden table Grove House cooks had prepared thousands of meals on for over a hundred years. He loved to sit at that table late at night and drink a cup of tea, running his hands over smooth surface. He loved feeling connected to the past, to all the other boys who had likely sat here late at night, alone or with someone...important...or with the house mother, hashing out some problem, likely the same problems that boys always had, all that energy stuffed into one building, filling it to bursting. John had spent many a long night here, talking quietly to Mrs. Hudson, wondering if that was what it would it have been like to still have a mother, now that he was almost a man grown.

The deep, wide windows looked out over the overgrown back garden, every closed flower, every untended bush clearly delineated this night, under the full moon, that same moon pouring into the kitchen, through the windows and onto the floor.

He set the dirty cups in the sink, debating the wisdom of trying to do the washing up. On one hand, it might be noisy, on the other, Mrs. Hudson might be quite put out to see he had left a mess for the kitchen staff to deal with. Well, he'd make a cup of tea, and consider it. Sherlock came up next to him, setting his own cups down next to John's, taking care that they not tip and clatter in the wide slate sink.

Silence.

"I - " Sherlock began. "You - " Then turned and walked away.

John followed the tall, slim figure with his eyes, a black silhouette against the windows, surrounded by a pale glow of moonlight. Sherlock reached the windows and raised one long hand to the glass. "That's really quite lovely," he said. "It almost makes me want to go out and walk in it, in the moonlight, It looks - restful."

John remained at the sink, his hands tight on the cold slate. "We could, if you like. As long as we're quiet, Mrs. Hudson wouldn't even know. Even if she did, she wouldn't mind. There's a back kitchen door - do you want to go out?"

Sherlock turned, "No, let's just have some tea, shall we?"  
The moon through the windows was taking terrible advantage of the boy, and making John's head spin. Sherlock shone, like a star, or a candle, or one of the little people that John's grandmother used to tell him stories of when he was small: "Made of moonlight and starlight, they are," she would say. "And lovely to stop your heart."

John was sure his heart was stopping. The moonlight wrapped around Sherlock, his skin almost silver, his eyes shrouded in shadow. "I'll - I'll get the kettle, then."

The kettle hung as it normally did from a full pot rack over the table, but before he could stretch up to retrieve it, Sherlock was standing next to him. "Let me," he said. "It'll be easier for me to do it without rattling the other pots." He gently lifted it free, with only the slightest ringing of metal and handed it to John. Their fingers brushed and John's heart lurched uncomfortably. This was getting ridiculous.

"Well, pardon me for being short!" John said without rancor, but he spun quickly away to fill the kettle at the sink and set it on the stove.

"You aren't _that_ short." Sherlock said, sitting down at the table, thankfully for John well away from the caressing moonlight. "I'm just stupidly tall." He stroked the surface, as John liked to do. "Old," he said, "but one of the cooks is careless. A lot of these nicks and scratches are new."

"How can you tell?" John opened the cabinet by the stove to dig for clean cups and tea, and set them on the counter. He felt better with a bit of space between himself and the other boy, with something to keep his hands busy. He crossed the kitchen to the huge walk-in icebox to find a reasonably sized container of milk. He knew Mrs. Hudson kept a quart in there, among all the gallons, and there it was, tucked behind an unappetizing vat of something that smelled vaguely chicken-ish. "I think I found tomorrow's dinner, and I am less than excited."

"The edges of the new cuts are rough - the older cuts are smoothed out by years of passing hands and bowls and cloths and pans. There are quite a few newer ones." Sherlock ran his hand over the wood again. "But the smooth spots are so soft."

John dropped teabags into the cups as the kettle started to boil. He hovered over it to make sure it didn't whistle. "Underneath is a mess, though. I think a hundred years worth of boys have carved their names in."

"You, too?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose. My first year. I was down here with - I was down here one night and took it into my head to add my moniker, yes. Tried to do it with a big carving knife and almost took my thumb off. Opted for a paring knife instead." John smiled at the memory, then turned to see that Sherlock had disappeared under the table.

"You won't be able to see it - "

A torch snapped on, and Sherlock popped his head back up. "Never go anywhere at night without a torch." And he disappeared again. "Ah, here it is. John H. Watson. What's the H?"

"Hamish," John said, lifting the kettle and pouring hot water over the bags. "Do you need sugar?"

"Yes," the disembodied voice was a bit discomfiting. "Two. Milk, as well. And here, right next to yours, of course, is Harcourt. James. James T. Harcourt. Thomas?"

"Theodore," John picked two lumps of sugar from the sugar bowl on the counter and dropped them into Sherlock's cup, then poured a bit of milk into both. "Tea's ready." He put the cups on the table and sat down across from the chair Sherlock had been occupying, but Sherlock resurfaced right next to him, snapping off his torch and reaching across the table to pull his cup over. "Thanks," he said.

The two boys sat sipping at their hot tea, feet in slippers almost touching where they both sat a bit sideways, facing each other on the same side of the table. John felt all the questions coming back from wherever he had managed to shove them down. He clamped his teeth around them.

"So," Sherlock began. "Harcourt, then?"

John looked at him, curious. "Um, yes - what about him?"

"I've been watching you for days, both of you. Mostly you. But anyone watching you is bound to get an eyeful of Harcourt, too. He's not more than a few feet from you whenever you're in a room together, and it's like the two of you live in a bubble that no one else can enter. It's fascinating, really. I've been in boys' schools all my life, and haven't ever observed two boys quite so...intertwined."

John felt immediately defensive. "We've been mates since first form. We're bound to be close. He's a good man, never cared that I was the scholarship boy, stuck by me even when the others were giving me a rough time."

Sherlock's eyes sharpened and John had to look away. "You had a rough time of it, did you?"

"For awhile. The first few months, kids can be - well, kids, and they all knew each other, had known each other since primary school, a lot of them. You know how those old money families are - "

"Yes, I'm afraid I do."

"But then Harcourt came along, for whatever reason, and things got better." John smiled at the memory of Harcourt approaching him at breakfast that one morning, those bright eyes hiding behind the blonde hair. "Much better."

"So, you're in love with him, then?"

"What? No!" John almost spilled his tea and had to think to keep his voice down to a whisper. "With Harcourt?"  
"Well," said Sherlock, again finding John's eyes with his own, "He's certainly in love with you. It's not anything to wind yourself up about. Happens in boys' schools. I've seen it a million times. All those ridiculous hormones. What else are you supposed to do?"

John, of course, knew this to be true. There were plenty of gay boys at Harrow, but often boys who weren't seemed to form couples, as well. He had seen many very tight friendships that seemed to cross an intimate line, boys who often had their arms around each others' waists while walking to class - of course in only the most manly, affectionate way - who sat together at meals, who spent all their time in each other's rooms. And he knew that they touched in other ways, too - he'd heard, anyway, of boys stroking each other off in the locker rooms or in the showers, kissing and fondling. But, like Sherlock said, all those hormones, and no easy access to girls. Everyone knew, but no one really talked about it. Harcourt, though -

"Harcourt is seeing Mary, the coffee shop girl in town. She's lovely. He goes in a few times a week to see her. And he and I spend a lot of time together, but we don't - " he paused, thinking of Harcourt on his bed, just tonight, and how John had been unable to resist touching his friend, pushing his hair out of his face, sitting close to him. He never really thought about touching him, he just did it, for all the jokes they liked to make about "People will talk." People did talk, but it didn't worry either of them, in their own, as Sherlock so aptly put it, little bubble. He thought of Harcourt's possessiveness and jealousy, which, even after all these years, he didn't really think of as a problem. He'd rather spend his time with Harcourt than anyone else anyway. This line of thought, he realized, was not taking him in a comfortable direction, with those pale blue eyes clearly seeing every single thing in his head.

And then he thought about Mary, the pretty blonde who Harcourt was entirely enamored with. "He's mad about her."

"No, he's not." Sherlock leaned a bit toward John, resting his hand near John's where he held his cup, a fact of which John was quite acutely aware. "He goes into town to the coffee shop but he hardly speaks to her if you aren't there to see. You went together two days ago and he was just _charming_ to her, touching her hand when he said thank you, smiling at her, making chat. But the next day, when he went alone, he hardly spoke to her at all. Poor girl. So confused." There didn't seem to be much sympathy in Sherlock's voice.

"Wait," John leaned back. "You _followed_ us. You _followed _Harcourt. Into town?"

"Yes," Sherlock lifted his teacup to his lips. "This is cold. Perhaps another cup?" He stood and walked to the stove, lifting the kettle to see if there was water in it and then turning on the burner. He moved like a cat, silent and soft. As he walked back to the table the light kissed him one more time, catching his eyes like two twin moons flashing in the dark. "I was interested. And you were so attentive to each other you didn't even know I was there. Love is boring, but _people_ in love are fascinating, the way they change for each other, and around other people. It's sociological research."

He sat back down and crossed his long legs, the top one bouncing. "Even more interesting is when you aren't with Harcourt, you're watching _me_."

John sat up straight and sputtered. Caught. "Well, I've been _concerned_. Mrs. Hudson asked me to keep half an eye on you, so I did. I _was_." Suddenly the questions came pouring out, and John could not seem to stop them. "You just _disappeared_, Sherlock. One moment we were talking, laughing, and the next you walked out of my room - with my shoes in hand, mind you - and didn't speak to me for _days_. And I've been wracking my brain trying to figure out what I could possibly have _done_ to upset you. And now we're sitting here like no time passed at all, like nothing ever happened, drinking _tea_ together in our pajamas in the middle of the night, for God's sake. What did I do? What did I say? Whatever it was, I'm sorry." He found himself leaning forward until their was only a few inches between their two faces, until he was able to see the color of Sherlock's shadowed eyes, that icy blue-grey of the moon, of a frozen sea. They drew him in and he was, after this whole time of being able to keep himself under control, drowning.

Time stopped while both boys sat between the spoken and unspoken words.


	6. Chapter 6

**I Will Follow You Into the Dark**

Sherlock stood, abruptly, and walked over to the stove and lifted the kettle, about to burst into song, from the burner. "Can you make the tea?" he said. "I'm really not much good at it. Yours is much better than mine would be. And - " he continued, "you didn't do anything, it was just you - I don't - I'm not - " John sat fascinated, watching the always-confident boy stumbling over his words. "I just don't like people. I prefer to spend most of my time alone, I don't want to bother with all that - stuff - all the chat and small talk and polite nothings. Sometimes I won't speak to anyone for days on end. People are idiots, mostly, and boring, and I have better conversations with myself." The last came out quickly, while he stood at the counter closely examining the box of tea bags.

"So," John said, "I didn't do anything wrong - I was just a boring idiot? Is that what you're saying?" Something inside him began to split open and he wasn't quite sure what it was. "But you'd like me to make you a cup of tea? Fine. I'll make you tea. And then I'll make my tea, and Harcourt's tea, and go upstairs and spend my time with the person who _doesn't_ think I'm boring." He got up and gathered the cups from the table.

"_To hell with the bloody tea_." Sherlock whispered fiercely, and flung the box in his hands across the room. "_Why is talking to people so damn difficult_?"

This was the same boy John had seen in Sherlock's room, the boy whose body, whose every mannerism, said the exact opposite of _leave me alone_. This was the boy who irresistibly drew him in with a gravity from which, John realized, there was no escape. He didn't even want to escape, he wanted to stay caught, keep spinning around this shining planet, hanging in the sky like a diamond.

"It isn't," John said, coming up next to Sherlock at the counter, suddenly finding himself more stable on his metaphorical feet as the other boy became less so. It was like an exchange was being made, like they were only able to get wound up in turns - one would stay steady while the other fell apart. It felt completely - natural. He set the cups down and took Sherlock by the shoulders. "Sherlock, look at me for a minute."

Sherlock glanced down into the shorter boy's face, but that was all he was willing to give, turning his eyes almost immediately back to his hands.

John swallowed. "I think you're lying," he said. 'You weren't pretending in my room the other day. You were happy to be with me, you were _laughing_, and all I've wanted, since you shut yourself back up in your room, was to hear you laugh again. I missed you, I think. Is that even possible? It's been making me - frustrated. Right now, I feel like - I've always missed you, somehow, all my life, though I didn't know it until I _met_ you. Is that even possible?"

"Of course not," Sherlock's hands twitched like he was contemplating sending a cup after the box of tea. "Don't be ridiculous."

John shook him gently, and said, "Look me in the eyes, and tell me I'm ridiculous."

Sherlock looked right into his eyes, and he almost lost himself again. "John, you are being ridiculous."

John smiled. "You _are _lying."

"John," the frustration was clear in Sherlock's voice. "I am not lying. It _is _ ridiculous. There is no way you can miss someone you don't even know. It doesn't even bear discussing. But aside from that, why you are being so persistent about all this? You have plenty of friends, you have Harcourt, you don't _need_ me. And it's for the best, really - people do talk, they will talk, especially those of my _social status_ - " He almost spat the words. "I got up to things in my last school that were - not good. I just don't want - your scholarship - "

John suddenly had the urge to thrust his fingers into the front of Sherlock's hair, just the way he did to Harcourt, to push the black curls out of the boy's eyes and tip his head back, to force him to look up. "You're _protecting me_." He sighed. "And of course, it has never crossed that brilliant mind of yours that the Head _and _Mrs. Hudson wanted me to Shepherd you? Which would have required our spending time together?" He rested his hand on Sherlock's arm and squeezed, gently.

Sherlock shook his head, but didn't move his arm from under John's hand. "That's still not being _friends_. It's just a job. You _can't choose to spend time with me._"

"I think we've been over this," John rested his other hand on Sherlock's other arm and moved forward, just the smallest bit. "I am perfectly capable of choosing who I spend my time with, and could care less what people think. I pick my own friends."

Quietly: "I don't have friends."

John moved an inch closer, "Well, now you have one."

Finally, Sherlock looked down at him. "You are - incredibly stubborn, John Watson."

"And _you_ are following me to the kitchen at night, Sherlock Holmes."

John could feel Sherlock's breath on his skin, so close, as the taller boy continued to speak. "People are going to tell you things about me, John. Especially if we spend time together. They're going to tell you to stay away from me, that I'm dangerous for you, that I've ruined people, that I've ruined myself. And it's going to be true, the things they say. And they might start saying things about you, too." John felt a hand on his cheek, and leaned into it. "This is your last chance to say no to me."

John remained silent, waiting, feeling the smooth warmth of the slim hand on his face. He would never, he realized, _ever_ say no. Not to Sherlock.

Sherlock allowed the merest shadow of a smile. "Then stay with me, John Watson."

"Watson? Watson? Are you in there?" A voice from the dining hall.

Both boys jumped, the thread between them snapped.

"Oh, God, Harcourt," John said. "He was waiting for me, I was bringing him _tea_-"

The kitchen door swung open. "Watson? Are you in here?

The moonlight illuminated the blonde hair of the boy coming through the door, his head moving hesitantly from side to side in the half-dark. "Where are you?"

'I'm right here," John choked out. "With - " No one. The back kitchen door clicked very quietly closed and through the window John thought he saw a shadow moving swiftly through the garden. "Just here."

Harcourt made his way across the kitchen. "Where've you been? I waited and then sort of slipped off to sleep and when I woke up it'd been almost an _hour_ and I had no idea where you'd gone and where my damn tea was!" He drifted up to the counter, and his quick mind noted the two cups - "Oh, was Mrs. Hudson up? Were you sitting up flirting again?" He grinned and rested his hand on John's head. "You shouldn't lead old ladies on like that - very cruel of you, Watson."

John noted his own reactions to the touch, his heart speeding up, the heat in his skin, and decided, in one moment, simply not to worry. Though still: "Yes," he lied. "Matron was up and waiting for me. She knows I like to come down at night. I didn't do anything naughty though - you know I save it all for you." He spoke lightheartedly, but felt like he was being torn in two directions - Sherlock's breath still warm on his face while he sank into Harcourt's warm ocean eyes.

Harcourt's hand slid down from John's hair to press on his cheek, in precisely the place Sherlock's hand had rested only a few moments before. "Promise?" Harcourt's voice was also light, but there was something in his gaze distinctly less so, growing weightier, denser, by the moment. John couldn't get Sherlock's voice out of his head: "_Well, he's certainly in love with you_." To respond to Harcourt's question seemed distinctly more - serious - now than it might have an hour ago.

But even then, he wasn't sure if he wanted to respond in the negative, no matter how much weight the promise might carry.

Instead, he hedged. "Now, Harcourt, people will talk."

"People always talk, that's what they do," Harcourt dropped his hand from his best friend's face and leaned his head down until their foreheads just barely touched. "Maybe - we should give them something to talk about, do you think?" he murmured. John could feel the heat of him, so close, and his own warmth at that closeness. He wanted to step back, give himself a moment to breathe, but then -

Harcourt retreated, his mouth settling into that familiar wide smile, and the tension melted away into the dark. "What's wrong, Mr. Watson? You'd best be careful." He leaned on the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. "_People will talk_."

John's laugh was a bit shaky. "Quit messing around. Do you want the tea or don't you? It must be almost midnight by now." His heartbeat was slowing a bit, which was good. It had been a difficult evening for John's heart.

"Past. And, no, I think the need for tea has vanished, if you can believe it. I dropped my books in my room before I came in search of my lost mate - off chatting up the ladies - and bed is on the immediate horizon." Harcourt yawned. "Another long day of competing with Holmes tomorrow. He's a quick and slippery bastard. Though it's not so bad to be on my toes a bit - at least I'm not bored."

John started a bit at the mention of Sherlock's name. "Well, maybe that will keep you busy and out of my room so I can get some work done." But he smiled to take any possible sting off.

"Oh good God," Harcourt pushed off the counter and headed for the door to the dining hall, John following just a step behind. "I'm _never_ so busy that I can't come bother my Watson. I imagine I'll be right there tomorrow night, sprawled out on your bed, not letting you get a damn thing done. Just like almost every night since first form."

The two boys made their way across the dining hall and up the stairs in companionable silence, walking close enough that their shoulders brushed on occasion, but John only thought how nice it was to be with someone who he didn't have to talk to every minute, someone with whom silence was as comfortable as speech. It was easy to be with Harcourt, it always had been, and even when his own feelings were a confused mess, he knew Harcourt would stick by him, like he always had, and make any problem instantly all right. As they walked up the stairs, he slipped his arm around Harcourt's back, resting his hand on the taller boy's shoulder. Harcourt glanced down at him and smiled, shifting a bit closer as the approached his second floor room.

They stopped at the door. "Well, goodnight then," John slid his hand from Harcourt's shoulder and turned to go. "See you at breakfast."

"John?" John halted at Harcourt's use of his first name, and turned to find the other boy right behind him.

"What is it - James?" He tried the name on and found the shape of it just fine in his mouth.

"Nothing." Harcourt leaned forward, took John's face in both his hands, and kissed him, softly, on the lips. "Just that. Good night, Watson." He disappeared into his room and shut the door softly behind him.

John stood in the hall for a moment, unsure what to think, wondering if what he just thought happened really did happen. Everything inside him seemed liquid - his heart, his brain - and suddenly, so did his legs. He leaned against the wall, touching his lips with the tips of his fingers.

"_Well, he's certainly in love with you."_

John searched inside himself for distress, revulsion, anger - but found none of those things. Only that warm liquid feeling that still had him leaning against the wall.

"_So, you're in love with him, then?"_

He made his way up the stairs to his room. Maybe Harcourt was having him on. Or maybe not. John couldn't honestly tell himself he preferred the former to the latter. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Sleep. Things would make more sense in the morning.

No light shone through the crack beneath the door of the room across from his, and even standing completely silent, he heard nothing indicating anyone inside was awake.

But John pushed his door open to find his walking shoes arranged neatly in the middle of his rug, and tucked into the laces of one, a folded white slip of paper. He pulled it out and opened it.

_"The garden at night - it is quite nice for a walk. Next time I would like you to come with me. - SH_"

He sat down on his bed with his hands over his eyes. Sleep. Things would make more sense in the morning.


	7. Chapter 7

**A Day Once Dawned, and It Was Beautiful**

Light. Granted, John's windows faced east. But he hardly felt he had slept before the black behind his eyelids faded to grey. Morning? Really? John turned over, away from the windows, pulling the blanket over his head. He had maths at nine, but why did it feel _so damn _early? The blankets were warm, the pillow was soft. Maybe, just this once, he would lie abed, just this once to skip class. Just this once. Why was he so tired?

Oh.

The night came flooding back to him in a relentless wave - the dark front hall, the collapsing cups, Sherlock appearing out of the dark. Harcourt. Promises. And...a kiss?

He flung the blankets back as he sat up in the sunlight. Bloody hell, Harcourt had _kissed_ him.

"Oh, you're awake. I brought you some tea. Would you like it?"

John's head whipped around to find a tall, dark-haired boy in his easy chair. Two cups sat steaming on his desk. "Sherlock? Good Christ, what are you doing at this hour? In my room?" John brought his hands up to rub his eyes, thinking to smear the vision away as he came more awake. But the apparition remained, all amused blue eyes and chaotic curls. "What time is it?"

"Just after seven. I thought perhaps we could have some tea before you headed down to the dining hall. Harcourt will be there, and I sense perhaps he would be less than delighted about us, if he saw us coming down together."

"Us?" John ran his hands through his hair, another effort to bring the world into sharper clarity.

"Yes. I think 'us' is appropriate," Sherlock picked one teacup from the desk and brought it to the bed, settling himself on the edge and offering the tea to John. "Here, take this. Maybe you need to wake up a bit."

John took the proffered cup and sipped, making a face. "There's sugar in." He sipped again. "Quite a bit of sugar. And it tastes like you brewed it through a sock. Good Lord, you weren't lying when you said you couldn't make tea!" He glanced up to see what his words might have done to Sherlock - and was not surprised to see him grinning happily.

"You'll observe I'm not drinking mine. But you love it."

John grinned back. "I do. I admit, I love you that made me tea. Or something tea-ish, at least. Though," he sipped the foul brew, grimacing, "I'm wondering how long you've been sitting there...watching me sleep?" He set the cup on his bedside table and adjusted his pillows against the wall so he could sit up comfortably.

Sherlock waited until John was settled then scooted over his outstretched legs, leaning against the side wall, his long legs perpendicular over John's. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. "For just a little while - the tea...ish...beverage is still hot after all."

John picked up his cup and drank again. "It'll wake me up, anyway. I was having a bit of a struggle with getting my eyes open this morning - I think we were up too late last night. DId you sleep well?"

"I'm not much for sleeping, really." Sherlock opened his eyes, turning to the other boy with a slight smile.

"But your light was out when I came up."

"I was just thinking. You were right about the desk chair - it's more like an implement of torture. I almost missed the easy chair."

John smiled at the memory of the bits of chair scattered along the wall below Sherlock's window. "I assume Mrs. Hudson gave you an earful for that one!"

"Oh, yes, she did. She went quite up one side of me and down the other. But she's used to me doing things like that - I wouldn't like to disappoint her by behaving myself too much. I think it makes her feel better when she can scold me for little things like that, like somehow that'll prevent me from getting into worse trouble." He pushed his hands into his hair, making the wild curls stick up in every direction, then brought them together in front of his lips, contemplating his fingertips.

John tore his thoughts away from the activities of Sherlock's long white hands. "You know Mrs. Hudson? From before now? Before she was the Matron?"

"Oh, yes, since I was small. She was our housekeeper for years. I spent more time with Mrs. Hudson than I spent with my father, or my mother when she was alive. She left when I did, when I went off to my first school. I didn't come home much, and neither did my brother and she didn't feel like there was enough for her to do with just my father to attend. 'I miss having children around,' is what she said. I think she was a bit lonely, so she came here so she could be surrounded by unruly boys all the time. I don't see the attraction, myself." Sherlock turned his blue-grey eyes to meet John's. "Well, mostly I don't." He brought his hands down to either side, resting on the bedclothes. "One of the reasons I've been sent to Harrow is because she's here. Mycroft thinks she'll be able to keep me in line."

"Mycroft?" John was intensely aware of Sherlock's hand, so close to his blanketed leg, looking pale and cool as marble. He wanted to reach out and touch it.

"My older brother. He works for the government, which is helpful in placing me in yet another school when I bollux things up. He's brilliant at pulling strings." Sherlock drew his knees up under his chin and wrapped his arms around them, his stockinged feet resting against the outside of John's knee.

"Your brother arranges for your schooling? What about your father?" John could feel the back of his neck getting warm. Too much contact. He considered pulling his own legs in, trapped tightly as they were between the other boy's feet and bottom.

Sherlock spoke right into his knees. "He's often busy with his work. He prefers to leave those things to Mycroft. I haven't seen my father in...oh, I don't know. A year?" His eyes were focused on a spot on John's rug.

John's attention snapped away from his trapped legs. "A _year_? You haven't seen you father in a year?"

"He's got a government job. Travels a lot." Sherlock leaned his cheek against his knee so he was facing John, but his eyes were closed. "After Mummy died he traveled a lot more."

"But what about holidays? What do you do?"

"Oh, I go to the estate, sometimes. My brother stops in to check on me, make sure I haven't gotten up to anything or burnt the house down. The staff is there. Sometimes I stay at school. Another benefit of having a family of string-pullers."

John thought of his own family at holidays. His sister was difficult, surely. Harriet - or Harry, as she liked to be called - drank a bit more than was good for her on occasion and could get angry and belligerent. John never understood why, but there it was. He and his father enjoyed each other's company, though, spending their time hiking through the woods near the house, or sitting by the fire reading in companionable silence on cold winter nights. They had never talked much, but they never had to. His mother had been the lively one in the family. John smiled to himself thinking of her on holidays when he was a small boy, stretching up to hang yet another sparkly bauble on the already full tree, gleefully teasing the children about the delights Father Christmas had in store for them, making the whole family come to the door when carolers came by. She was full of life and joy. It still confused him, trying to understand how someone like her could have died, not just so young, but at all. She had enough life in her, he remembered, for ten people.

"You're thinking of your family." John looked up to find blue eyes lasered in on his face.

"When did your mother die?" John wanted to know, and sensed Sherlock would prefer the direct question.

"When I was small, maybe five. I don't remember much about it. No one told me there was anything wrong. She spent most of her time in her room - she'd never been any other way and I didn't spend much time at anyone else's house to realize that wasn't normal. I didn't know she was dead until Mrs. Hudson put me in my best suit and took me to the funeral." He tucked his chin back between his knees. "She killed herself, but I didn't find that out for years."

John was stunned. No one bothered to tell a small child that his mother was _dead_? His parents, granted, had waited until they knew Mum was going to die before telling the children - Harry still resented that, but it made sense to John. There was no point in creating more distress than needed. And once they knew she wasn't going to survive, his mother and father sat John and Harry down and explained everything clearly and gently. John remembered feeling confused and frightened, but he never questioned that his parents loved him and would do their best to keep him safe, no matter what happened. When his mother _did _die, he was as ready as any child could be for that kind of thing. He couldn't even imagine not knowing she was dead until days later. "How did you find out?" He pulled his legs free of Sherlock and the blankets, then scooted closer, the knees of his crossed legs touching the other boy. He twined his fingers together in his lap, resisting the urge to lay them on the curly-haired head, the drawn-up legs.

"I went through my father's desk when I was home alone for hols last year. There was a file in the bottom drawer of his desk full of papers, reports from doctors. Apparently she was very depressed. Nothing was done about it, as far as I could tell. Wouldn't have looked good for the family. They probably just tried to keep it hidden. You know - _people will talk._" His voice was bitter.

John slipped forward a bit more. "Last year? You didn't find out until last year?" It all got more unbelievable by the moment. Granted, John new that moneyed families sometimes dealt with things differently - so he had learned in the years being friends with Harcourt and the other boys. Children didn't always go home for holidays - they went skiing in Switzerland or boating in Jamaica with friends. They were sometimes closer to their nannies and cooks than their busily working and networking parents, closer to their friends than their siblings. Harcourt's was the closest he had seen to familiar - his parents were affectionate, loving and attentive. But Mr. Harcourt hadn't come from money, he'd married it. John had heard the story, told by both Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt in smiling tandem, with their son adding details they forgot. Mrs. Harcourt had married Mr. Harcourt against her parents' wishes, having fallen in love with him, a fisherman's son, on a holiday to the coast. In the following years, Mr. Harcourt had done everything he could to repair that rift, being kind and polite in the face of their chilly manners, loving their daughter unconditionally even when they cut off her funds, assisting in the creation of a wonderful grandchild, who her parents, no matter how chilly, found irresistible. He showed them how important family was, and they came around. "Eventually," he would say, laughing. It only took a decade for them to reinstate their daughter's inheritance and allow her husband into their house, but they did.

Harcourt. Oh, God. Harcourt. John's thoughts shifted to the night before, and warm lips pressed against his in a dark hallway.

"Your face is getting very pink."

"I'm - " the blonde boy hesitated, not sure what he was ready to say. "I'm happy to be here. Talking to you." Which was true. He _was_ happy, no matter how sad the conversation, to be close to Sherlock, to listen to him talk. John felt that, maybe, this wasn't a normal behavior for this solitary boy, that maybe he was releasing things that had been held tight in his head for much too long.

"I don't normally - " now it was Sherlock who paused. "I don't like to talk about this kind of thing. But I just want to tell you everything, and God help me - " he tipped his head back til it thudded dully against the wall, " - who knew there was so much to say? It must be tedious. _I'd_ think it was tedious. I _do _think it's tedious and I'm the one doing all the talking. Families are boring. I don't know why people bother with them. I don't know why I'm even talking about it."

John gave up the struggle to maintain his distacne, leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's knees, resting his cheek on the near one so he could look at the tall pale boy next to him. "You haven't even _had_ a family. How would you know?"

"I've _observed_ families." Sherlock's head moved forward until his brow was resting against John's.

"It's not the same as having one. _Observing _and _experiencing_ are very different things, you should know that." The heat of Sherlock's breath on his face was making his head spin. "Maybe you need to experience family before coming to conclusions."

"Maybe." John felt Sherlock's hand come to rest on his side and squeeze, gently. It was almost unbearable, the closeness, and not just of the body next to him. His heart was pounding furiously, threatening to explode. It seemed he was privy to the deepest recesses of Sherlock's mind, and he had a feeling that didn't happen often for this particular young man. "Maybe you're right, John."

His name from those lips was too much. He slipped his hand around the back of that long, white neck and pulled, gently. "I want to be your family, Sherlock. Would that be alright?"


	8. Chapter 8

**What We Say, What Goes Unsaid**

Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled along, even as he said, "I don't know. I think, maybe, you might change your mind if you knew…"

"There's nothing you could say," John said, sitting up and drawing the other boy along with him, "that would change my mind. I don't know what you've done. I don't even care. Tell me or don't. It won't change anything. What I do know is - " he stopped. "I just want - " he stopped again.

"Oh, Bloody Hell!" Sherlock snapped his head back so quickly it cracked against the wall. "Damn it!" He pressed his hands to the injured spot, dropping his forehead back to his knees. "John, I - " He pushed himself up and away, and stood in the middle of the floor facing the boy on the bed. "You _don't _know. You can't say something like that if you don't know. How can you? How can you say it won't make any difference if _you don't know_?" He rubbed his hands through his hair, making it stand up every which way, staring at the wall above John's head as if he could see every mistake of his life written there.

John took a deep breath, and shifted himself into the spot Sherlock had just abandoned, leaning against the wall. His heart was still beating heavily in his chest, but his body was cold in all the places he had been touching the agitated young man opposite. He breathed again, to keep his voice from shaking. "Sherlock."

The other boy said nothing.

John sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Look, why don't we go down to breakfast? Do you have class this morning? I only have a half day." He pushed the blankets away and stood up, though he made no move toward the still silent boy in the middle of the room. "What do you have? Maybe we can go out this afternoon - for a walk, or into town, or wherever. We can talk or not talk, whatever you like. Or tonight, or tomorrow." He walked across the room, giving Sherlock a wide berth, and picked up his clothes from where they were draped over the back of the easy chair. "Why don't you go get dressed, and we'll go down?"

Silence.

John held his clothes in his hand, watching, just for a moment, the sun through the window playing sweet games in Sherlock's black curls, each twist shining gold around the edges, like a halo. The tall boy had crossed his arms tightly across his chest, his back hunched.

"Sherlock?" John stretched his hand out and touched one curved shoulder.

The taller boy jerked away, spinning. "I - I'm not hungry. I need to go check on - an experiment. I need to - I just need to go." His eyes were sad. Sad and angry. He walked to the door, out of John's reach, then stopped, not turning. "I won't - disappear again. I promise. But I need to think. You just have to let me _think_."

John sat down in the big soft chair, leaning back with his eyes closed. "Okay, Sherlock. Okay. You go think. Think as much as you need to, all right? But I'll be here when you get done thinking. You can believe whatever you like, but no matter what, I'll be here." He heard soft footsteps, and a door closing, gently, across the hall. John leaned forward and put his head in his hands. _What the bloody hell was he doing?_

But his heart settled in, to wait. His unsettled body got up and dressed for breakfast, for class.

John arrived, calm, in the dining room, ready for a potable cup of tea and perhaps a bacon sandwich. His father had told him, and he'd always found it to be true, that there was little hot cup of tea and a bacon sandwich couldn't cure. Then maths, then biology, and perhaps a long walk until dinner.

"Watson."

The voice sounded right in his ear and he almost jumped out of his skin.

"Harcourt, Jesus, you bloody scared me! What are you doing, sneaking up on a man like that before he's had his tea?" John reached behind him and found a hand, a hand that gripped his.

Harcourt came around him, grinning. "Jumpy a bit? I'll get you your tea, then, to make up for it. And how about a bacon sandwich?"

John grinned back, "You great git." Then he focused on Harcourt's smile, and his hand, still holding John's. The night before came rushing back. His grin faded, just the slightest bit, but he held on to it, not sure how he was supposed to react. He shook himself. "You go on, then, and I'll be right there. Must find Matron, just for a moment. Hold me a seat, all right?"

"All right, then. You just want to go flirt, I'm sure." Harcourt squeezed his hand, still smiling, then let it go, heading off to the sixth form table.

John didn't know if he really wanted to see Matron, but he did know he wanted _yet another_ moment to gather his wits before dealing with Harcourt. It had been a morning. A ridiculous morning. He wove his way through the press of boys, looking for the bright purple of Matron's Friday dress, homing in on her near the back windows, scolding a shamefaced group of first-formers.

"I expect a bit of noise and ruckus from you boys, certainly, but when food begins to fly, I am going to lose my patience _every time_. One more time and I'll be going _straight_ to the House Master_. _For this morning, though, I'll have you boys stay behind and clean up your own mess." Groans sounded around her. "Don't begin that nonsense. I don't know who you have cleaning up after you at home, but here, you clean up after yourself! Get on with you, then, and I'm watching." The boys wandered hangdog in the direction of the first formers' table, which John could see, standing surreptitiously on his toes, looked like a porridge and bacon bomb had dropped. And Mrs. Hudson certainly would be watching. She had eyes in the back of her head, as any boy at Grove House knew.

"Speaking of messes…" Mrs. Hudson caught sight of John and took his arm, drawing him close to her side, while still watching the retreating first-formers. "There was a scattering of teabags all over the kitchen this morning, and quite a collection of dirty cups in the sink. Might you know anything about that, Mr. Watson? Cook was quite put out."

Oh, damn. The cups. And Sherlock's flung box of tea. Probably cups left out on the counter. And no recollection of putting the milk away. Or the sugar.

John hung his head in mimicry of the first-formers. "Sorry, Matron! I'm so sorry. Things were a bit...odd last night and I must have forgotten…"

"And please," Mrs Hudson finished for him, "don't take my nighttime kitchen privileges away! Don't worry, silly boy." She patted his arm. "I can't remember the last time you made a mess. Who were you up with? I saw two cups on the counter. Harcourt?"

"No. Sherlock Holmes."

Mrs. Hudson looked at him, startled. "But I thought you said he didn't want a shepherd?"

"He didn't - he doesn't. But...Mrs. Hudson...Matron…" John wasn't sure exactly what he wanted to ask, just that he wanted to ask something. Outside the windows to his right, he could see boys in their Harrow straw hats making their way to class in the sunshine, pushing and shoving and shouting the way they always did, on every morning since he arrived at school. Normal. "He told me you used to be his…"

"Did he really tell you that?" she looked at him with eyes full of questions. "What else did he tell you?"

"Things. Some things about his family."

"His mother?"

The room around them was quieting from a dull roar to a soft murmur as more boys made their way to class. John was going to be lucky to just get a cup of tea at this rate.

"Matron, is Watson flirting with you _again_?" Harcourt bounded up, tea in one hand, a napkin-wrapped sandwich in the other. "Now he's gone and missed breakfast, and a breakfastless Watson is no one I want to spend my day with. Here you are, Watson," he handed the shorter boy the sandwich and the cup. "Quick, now, I know you have maths first and Rodgers is a Tartar...don't want to be late!" He caught John by the wrist and tugged. "See you at dinner, Mrs. Hudson!" he called over his shoulder as he dragged John across the room towards the door.

John allowed himself to be dragged, slurping the foully lukewarm tea as quickly as he could and depositing the cup on the table nearest the door, but Harcourt had hold of the wrist of the hand holding the sandwich. "Harcourt, I can't get to my sandwich, damn it, man. Let go! I still need to go up for my books and hat, anyway. And there's a bit of time, it'll be fine. I can run."

Harcourt released the captured hand, and John brought the sandwich up to his mouth, biting through the limp, buttery toast and crisp bacon as the two boys made their way across the hall and to the stairs. "God, this is perfect. But no decent tea until lunch. I might die." John took another bite. "Coming up with me?"

The boys bounded up the two flights of stairs til they reached John's room.

Harcourt glanced at the closed door across the hall. "Do you ever talk to Holmes? He doesn't seem to be the friendly type." Harcourt bounced down on John's bed. "Not charming."

"He's all right, I guess. We've spoken once or twice when we've met in the hall, but, no, he mostly keeps to himself. Quiet, nice enough, I suppose." John was lying. The words were coming out of his mouth and he couldn't stop them. He didn't _want_ to lie, but he also didn't _want _to talk to Harcourt about Sherlock. That idea seemed to him to be..._a bit not good_, in the words of his father. But he'd never actually lied to Harcourt about anything.

John turned his back on the young man on the bed, fiddling around on his desk in search of paper and pens and textbooks. "Could you get my hat out of my closet for me? It's hanging on the hook inside the door - "

It dropped onto his head, tipping down over his eyes as behind him Harcourt finished, " - just like it always is. Just like it's been for years."

John laughed, pushing the hat back off his face. "I'm a creature of - " he stopped, as two arms snaked around his waist and he felt a long warm body pressed up against his back. "Hey, hello, what are you - "

"Hello, John." Harcourt's voice was warm in his ear. "Did you think about last night?"

Last night?

Oh. Last night. At Harcourt's door.

John closed his hands over Harcourt's, holding them still. "I don't know. I haven't really been _thinking_ about it. I guess I have been, but I only just got up a bit ago, really - "

"I was up half the night thinking. It's all I've been thinking about since I got up this morning." Harcourt pulled his hands loose from John's grip and turned the shorter boy around to face him. He slid his hands under John's chin, tilting his face up. "I want to kiss you again, all right?"

He sounded so sure, but the hands on John's face trembled, and when he looked into Harcourt's eyes, he could see the fear there - that he was going too far, that John was going to be angry, or disgusted, would push him away.

"Harcourt…"

"_James_."

John sighed, bringing his hands up to cover Harcourt's, to hold them and draw them down to his chest. "James, then. Talk to me, James, all right? Just tell me what's going on. It's all fine, really. Just _talk to me_ before you attack me." He smiled to take the sting off the worlds and tugged the taller boy over to his bed. "Sit."

Harcourt sat, and John, after a moment's hesitation, sat down next to him, their legs separated by a few inches of space. "Okay. Now talk."

Harcourt scooted toward John, just slightly, until their knees touched. "I just thought it was something I'd like to try. With you. We've been together every other way for so long, and soon we won't be together every day - you off to Bart's, me off to - somewhere, I suppose." He scooted over again, so the length of his right thigh was pressed along the length of John's left, and rested his hand on John's knee.

John didn't pull away, didn't really want to pull away. Something in his body was getting frustrated with the constant up and down, the constant thwarting of desire. A kiss here, a hand on his face there - what the hell was he supposed to do with any of that? Harcourt's hand left his knee and slid around behind him, up his back, tugging him forward. His best friend, his best mate, how many years _had _it been? John allowed himself to be tugged, felt his heart speeding up as Harcourt's cheek touched his, the soft prickliness of blonde hair scruffing against his own, the warmth of his breath down John's neck. Class. Didn't he have to get to class?

Harcourt's - _James'_ - lips on his cheek. "Okay?" he heard, close to his ear, almost nothing but a breath. It was just a small step to take, really. Just a small step.

John turned his head and found a mouth searching for his. "It's all fine," he thought. More than fine, even. A tongue ran across across his closed lips and he opened them, meeting the intrusion with his own. Harcourt tasted like tea. And bacon. Like breakfast. And morning. John's tongue probed deeper, and he felt rather than heard Harcourt's moan vibrating against his teeth, felt hands pushing at his chest, tipping him back onto the bed. He gripped Harcourt's shirt and brought him along til they were lying on their sides, face to face, legs tangled together. John pulled away just long enough to see his friend's eyes shining the brightest blue, then he went back in for another kiss.

Somewhere in the back of his head, John was realizing, with surprise, how much he _wanted_ this. Maybe how much he _had_ wanted it. It was so easy, uncomplicated, to just kiss someone, to touch them and be touched back without being thrust away, turned from, rejected. And that want powerfully drowned out the little voice in his head that might have said, might have been saying, "Maybe stop and think about this for a moment - maybe?"

"If you are going to rut like animals," a different voice drawled, "perhaps you should shut the door."

Harcourt shot up, tearing himself out of John's arms. "Holmes!" he said, gasping. "Good God, man, you might think to knock." The blonde boy stood, leaving John alone on the bed feeling stunned and bereft as Harcourt tugged his clothes back into place, his face bright red.

"Knock? The door was wide open. I just walked out of my room to go to class and I'm greeted with the sight of you two fine young Harrovians trying to get a leg over each other." Sherlock leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, eyes dark.

John sat up, his mind just beginning to wrap around what was occurring. His head snapped up. Sherlock. Oh bloody hell.

"Well," Harcourt gathered himself. "You might have politely passed without saying anything at all."

"I might have," Sherlock said, seeming to contemplate the option. He crossed one foot over the other, casually, but there was tension humming out of him like electricity. John could almost feel the room vibrating "But if I hadn't said anything, it might've happened again - and, really, _that_ wouldn't do at all. Honestly, not something I'd like to see again."

John saw Harcourt turn to him for help, but he had nothing to give. Now that the heat in his body had faded, the little voice in his head telling him to think twice and be careful was resonating loudly through his skull. Too late.

Harcourt brushed down the front of his shirt again, briskly, with both hands. "Fine, then, whatever. I have to go to class. _You_ have to go to class," he said to Sherlock.

"I'll be there or not. You worry over yourself." Sherlock stepped forward out of the doorway and gestured for Harcourt to go through. "I have to speak to Watson for a moment anyway."

John started at the strange sound of his surname coming out of Sherlock's mouth.

Harcourt paused, looking between the two other boys, small and blonde and tall and dark, "You do? About what?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but about an experiment I'm working on. I thought the key to a problem I'm having might be in one of John's Bart's textbooks."

"Ah," Harcourt visibly relaxed. He turned from the door, "I'll see you at dinner, then? And I'll help you with Latin tonight?"

John smiled a bit weakly. "Of course," he nodded.

"All right, then," and he was out the door. John heard his feet flying down the stairs.

"All right then, indeed." Sherlock's eyes were full of contempt as he looked at John. "That bed's been busy this morning. If I'd known that's all you needed, I might have just given it to you, then, without all the tedious talking."


End file.
